Vitality
by Deception's Call
Summary: When he dies, she does not weep. Post-Reichenbach. Dark!Molly.


**Hello everyone! :)**

**To me, Molly has always been a strong character, incredibly so. The scene at the end of The Reichenbach Fall when she does not hesitate at all in asking Sherlock what he needs just goes to show it. She is strong. She must be strong for sticking with a man like Sherlock Holmes. **

_Summary: When he dies, she does not weep._

**Vitality - The state of being strong and active; energy. (or the power giving continuance of life, present in all living things).**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

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_Vitality_

She can never love him.

Him, with his dark coat and blue eyes with bladed words and tips of knives, spitefully refute her every attempt to make conversation.

Him, with his sharp mind and quick wit does well to shoot her down at every turn, like an arrow released from a bow at close range.

She is nothing to him.

Who is she? A girl? A woman? An animal? A pet?

She is a plaything.

_His _plaything.

She bows, just like the sun does at dusk, to his every whim. No questions asked, no words exchanged. She comes, and always will and hates herself for not being strong enough to just say 'no.' But he is alluring like a male siren, beckoning her to come with a wave of his hand, and he knows that she will follow him until his grave.

She does follow him to his grave. And she hates herself for doing it.

She hates him even more for knowing that she will.

He comes, telling her that she does count and has always counted, and those little butterflies in her stomach pucker up and begin to fly like they always do when he comes near. She asks him what he needs, and he needs _her. _

She refuses to believe that she loves him. But she accepts that he needs her help.

When he falls, she is not there to catch him.

When he dies, she does not weep.

She refuses to be the villain in this. After all, she did save his life.

He mopes around, attacking her with his piercing paragraphs of deduction and she slams the door on him more than once, fed up with him entirely.

When she comes back, there's always a rose on the table.

Roses. Like the blood that blossoms with a prick of a finger, it blooms in its season, drawing in wonder and amazement from those who worship it. Much like him, because he cannot survive without the constant reiteration that he is amazing.

She begins to think that roses are more amazing than him.

They scream at each other more often that she wants to believe, because who ever thought that harboring this secret would hurt so much? She supposes that since she got herself into this mess, then she should make up for the mistakes that she's made.

When she sees John Watson, she feels like the devil.

But she isn't.

_He _is the devil.

He drew her in and made her fall with him into this hell. Fire and ashes from the fireplace and blood from pricking her finger on the rose thorns.

When the drop of blood falls to the ground, she notices that it blossoms much like his did when he jumped off that building.

The pattern, so mundane yet so beautiful, can reach an expanse that could be as small as a pond or as wide as an ocean, and she pretends that he is not cradling her hand against his while bandaging the wound and berating her for not being careful.

He always seems to be insulting even when he tries to do something nice.

The words that come from him pierce her heart more painfully than the thorns of roses.

Soon enough, years pass, and she has grown accustomed to his spiteful attitude.

She has still stayed, and no one can ever call her weak again.

He resurfaces from the dead to the city that has forgotten him, and he leaves her flat just as easily as he flung himself off that building.

He has not changed. But she has.

She will never let anyone play her again.

Three months pass after he comes back from the dead, and he bursts into her morgue declaring the need for a body.

She refuses, and the look on his face is priceless.

He leaves, and she doesn't care.

She doesn't hear from him in five months.

The ache in her heart hurt more than his words.

But when he comes back, this time, he comes _to her. _

She had always had a cold heart, frozen by the cold air from the morgue that she works in, but he doesn't know that. He thinks her heart is like fire, warm and ready to melt anything.

He is wrong.

Her heart is colder than his.

When he notices, she realizes that his attitude has changed towards her.

Maybe he changed as well.

She has hardened and those years together in hiding have formed something incomprehensible. He does not understand, and she refuses to.

She has always stayed.

She is like a soldier on the front line of a war, waiting to attack and waiting to be slain. But she refuses to be beaten down once again.

He brings her coffee and tones down his deductions, his heart begins to soften and melt and this time she is not the one coming to him. She loves it and it's obvious that he knows she does.

When his best friend gets married, she finds herself in his company more often.

This time, she doesn't entirely hate it.

When he sees that her hands are full of scars from slipped and misplaced scalpels, he kisses each scar until there is not an inch left of her hands that has not been touched.

His blue eyes no longer scrutinize her, but rather pierce into her, glaring, watching and observing to see if there is anything left of the semblance she once felt towards him.

Time together and time apart has worn him thin, his edges now frayed with the age of what was once was and what could have been. He knows that she will never love him.

The universe cracks and shifts ever so slightly when she finds him standing at her door one night, silhouetted by the candlelight and the darkness of the room, and he slips into her bed and murmurs into her hair how he is so sorry and how he was so wrong.

She is strong and always has been. She is more than a toy.

Who is she? A girl? A woman? An animal? A pet?

She is more than what she is.

He was blind, and how ironic that must be.

He is still blind.

She will always love him (even if she doesn't want to).

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**I…I don't know what I just wrote. **

**Honest to god that was just my hands working, I have no idea what was going on. I typed this up in half an hour, though. I tend to make summaries before typing up the story. **

**So sorry if it didn't make any sense. Really. Sorry. –blushes bashfully-**

**I'd just like to declare that I love Molly and think that she is extraordinary for putting up with Sherlock! **

**Anyway, I would love to hear your thoughts!**

**Review? Because your feedback means so much to me. :)**


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